


From This We Get Blessing

by oddegg



Series: Sanguine series [2]
Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: Bloodplay, Dark, Dubious Consent, M/M, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-30
Updated: 2010-03-30
Packaged: 2017-10-08 13:01:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/75903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oddegg/pseuds/oddegg
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry's mind is all edges and crimson</p>
            </blockquote>





	From This We Get Blessing

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for rounds_of_kink on livejournal, where literati asked for: Horcrux hunting, Harry/Draco, Bloodplay. I made it a continuation of 'Strong at the Broken Places'
> 
> Regarding the title: the act of sprinkling the blood of a sacrifice was called bleodsian in Old English. The terminology was borrowed by the Roman Catholic Church, becoming to bless or blessing.

He didn’t know when this obsession started, and in his saner moments he fears that it began back then at school, in that reeking, damp toilet, water on the floor running red. He fears _(he remembers) _that some small part of him didn’t want the red to stop, didn’t want those wounds to close. Wanted that white fabric, that pale skin to be desecrated further. In his saner moments he fears it started even before that, when those first adolescent nights of dreams, of hardness and stickiness were, for him, mixed up with dreams of a different kind; dreams of screaming and pain, dreams that ran with red.

 

He doesn’t have that many fully sane moments though. Not these days.

 

He hides it well, has always been good at hiding things, dealing with things on his own – and everyone is used to his dark moods, his brooding by now. It’s not like every one of them doesn’t have reasons to be less than happy these days.

 

It was different when Dumbledore was alive. The old man had tried to keep him a child for as long as he could: keep him innocent and preserve his humanity.

And for him, Harry had tried – honestly tried. But a couple of years of friendship and love couldn’t wipe away all of those when he’d been told he was a useless freak, a waste of space. A decade of acid words dripped onto your skin doesn’t get mended with a couple of chocolate frogs and a game of Quidditch.

 

**

 

Now the old man’s gone, and he was barely cold in the ground before Harry had become what Dumbledore had tried to avoid for so long – a killer. And even his best friends don’t know what really lies behind the mask of ‘saviour’ that he’s forced to wear. How frightening and black his thoughts get.

 

And sometimes – even in the middle of these raw moments when he manages to reduce all the rage and confusion, all the hate in his head down to this cleansing act of ‘_teethbitelipsfleshpoundbruisebleed – come’ – _it will astonish him that this man, this pale blond gasping below him, this is the one person who does know him; that of all people he’s the one who knows what Harry’s like inside, knows better than anyone what he’s truly capable of doing, what he _enjoys_ doing. Knows it and doesn’t care. Knows it and _likes_ it.

 

It astonishes him, and angers him. And Harry isn’t safe when he gets angry. Not anymore.

 

**

 

He had been trying to avoid thinking about it during the day – running around on another, useless fucking dead-end of a hunt. No Horcrux, not even a sign of it. And then when he had got back finally he had avoiding the others in the house, not capable of dealing with them until he’d got rid of some of his frustration and tension, until he had _(ha!)_ bled some of it off, and he found that there was no-one there in the upstairs attic room, no quick, easy release for him.

Nothing to keep his mind occupied with other thoughts, unsafe thoughts. Crimson thoughts.

 

And so by the time the blond had come in he might just as well have been walking into a pit of snakes – would have been safer if he had, because Harry wasn’t able to manage quick and easy any more; that wouldn’t be enough.

 

**

 

The blond on his knees wasn’t enough, the first orgasm wasn’t enough. Harry needed to see the red, needed to see grey eyes widen at the sight of the knife, hear breath quicken with a deeper edge of fear this time.

 

Needs to make that first cut so badly his hand nearly shakes. Sees the easy way the skin parts, the way the whiteness goes all the way through the layers for a moment before the first upwell of scarlet appears. Leans down to press his lips to the wound with a moan.

 

He pulled back long enough to take off suddenly constricting jeans and boots, got back on the bed between the blond’s forced apart knees, holds him down with one hand while he writhes; while the knife carries on making small slices, while Harry laps and presses sticky kisses to the places he hasn’t scored yet.

 

He feels like he’s floating over water that’s just about to suck him down in a whirlpool, like he’s on the still top of a giant wave that’s finally going to crash and break.

And it’s not enough. There’s not enough red, not enough wet.

 

He cocks his head, and he can see in the other man’s eyes the instant he realizes that this time it’s different – and Harry’s weight is compressing him down before he can move, his hand there over his mouth and nose. Smiling into wide open, rolling eyes and murmuring ‘shhh, shush’ as he dug the knife in and _pulled._

No slow seep this time, this time a hot gush – a beautiful wetness that drenches them both, that spurts again when he moves the knife and repeats.

 

And this is enough, finally – this iron-reek wrapping around them and the skitter of bone under the blade, the noises the other is making in his throat and the wonderful, silky slipperiness flowing out of him that Harry rubs into himself, rubs over the other, uses to coat himself before he rams into tight, tight, so tight burning-hot heat. And the other is still arching and struggling under him, still making those magnificent high damaged sounds and as the struggles grow less, as the sounds taper off Harry realizes that he’s laughing; shaking and laughing as he comes.

 

**

 

So here he is. Sitting naked and stained on a hard wood chair, staring at a ruined body – a still life on the bed. Harsh _tastesmell_ of copper coating his tongue, the back of his throat.

 

He doesn’t know if that hard pounding, rushing sound is out there in the room, or just in his own head. He doesn’t know if that faint, slowing whisper of air is someone’s breath, or if the breath-sound of the wind outside is audible now because there’s nothing left in the still room to compete with it.

 

He licks the blood off the blade he’s still holding in his hand, feels the graininess of tiny clots in the slick mass.

 

He doesn’t know if there’s another life in the room anymore. He doesn’t care. 


End file.
